Arrivederci: The 'Mishap in Milan' Continues

On my recent trip to Milan for the European Hematology Association meeting, I barely made my connecting flight in Newark, but my luggage wasn't as fortunate. Milan greeted me with 95-degree summer heat and a 1-day strike by taxi drivers to protest the city's encouragement of a car-share program (or perhaps they heard I was coming).

Undeterred by the threat of a heat stroke and a mob of angry cab drivers, I set out on foot for my hotel, which management had assured me was "only a few minutes" from the train station. Four hours later, I found myself standing outside the hotel. If you want all of the gory details, you'll have to go back to the start. I'm trying to suppress the memory.

My red shirt had turned an odd shade of maroon after soaking up my perspiration for the previous 4 hours. I dragged my computer bag and myself into the hotel, and my spirits rose immediately, for two reasons: (1) As advertised, the hotel had air conditioning and (2) they were actually using it.

For several moments, I stood motionless in the small lobby, allowing the cool air to envelope me and whisk me away from the previous 4 hours. I stood there for so long that the man behind the counter asked if I needed assistance. In my current state, I could have been mistaken for a wayward tourist, mooching some free A/C, or worse yet, a well-nourished hobo.

As I showed him my passport and credit card, I inquired about my luggage. No word. Just as well. I didn't know whether I had enough energy left to drag my checked luggage up the small flight of stairs to the elevator. Instead, the man behind the counter gave me a room key attached to a piece of marble that weighed only slightly less than a bowling ball, and I lugged that up the stairs. I was supposed to turn in the key each time I left the hotel -- as if my pants would stay up if I put it in my pocket.

'Sweet Spot' Cures All

I entered an elevator that was too small for Clark Kent to change clothes and got off at the second floor. Naturally, my room was at the very end of the hall. I opened the door, closed it behind me, dropped my bag to the floor, and made a beeline for the thermostat. I cranked it all the way down. The settings were in Celsius, so I didn't know the temperature settings. I didn't care. I just wanted the room to get as cold as possible as fast as possible.

Every hotel room has an A/C "sweet spot." The spot where the air blows directly on you. I found the one in my room and resumed standing in place, as I had in the lobby. When I was satisfied that I was no longer perspiring, I realized I was thirsty. Really thirsty. I flung open the door to the small refrigerator in my room. I saw four bottles of sparkling water. I'm not a big fan of sparkling water, but I drank it anyway. All four bottles.

As I finished the last of the water, I was beginning to feel human again. The color was slowly returning to my shirt as it dried. Then I looked in a mirror, and for a moment, I wasn't sure who was staring back at me. My hair was stuck to my forehead and neck. I looked like I was wearing a plastic toupee.

I remembered my luggage and used Skype to call the airline's customer service. The flight carrying my luggage had been canceled, and the bags placed on a different flight, scheduled to arrive in the evening.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Thankfully. I had room service for dinner and discovered that the hotel did not have a restaurant but instead outsourced food service to a nearby restaurant. My pizza arrived in lukewarm condition, but I didn't care. I was cool. I was sitting down. I was rehydrated. What more could I ask for? Oh, yeah. My luggage.

I showered and checked the status of my luggage once more before turning in for the night. Latest update: The luggage was expected "later" that night. No explanation.

The Wait Continues

The next morning, my luggage still had not arrived. The hotel manager told me not to worry. Some guests have had to wait days for their luggage, but it has always arrived, he said. If that was supposed to reassure me, it didn't work.

I spent another day in my hotel room, not caring to venture outside. Not only because of the heat, but because by then, my clothes probably could have stood unsupported in the middle of the room.

Mid-afternoon, and the phone in my room rings. Instead of news about my luggage, the head of housekeeping was on the other end. Could I leave my room for awhile? From my limited understanding of Italian and her limited English, I gathered that none of the housekeepers wanted to be in the room alone with me. I didn't take it personally. I didn't want to be in the room alone with me, either, but I didn't have any choice.

I went downstairs and stared at my laptop computer, pretending to work. In reality, I was just staring. This was my third trip to Milan, and I had made up my mind to see some of the sights. Anything, besides my hotel and the convention center, which constituted my sightseeing in totality on the last two trips to Milan.

After waiting a reasonable time, I returned to my room. The bed was made but turned down. Fresh sheets, I noticed. They probably burned the ones I slept on the night before.

As I was getting ready to order room service from the restaurant down the street, the phone in my hotel room rang once again. I purposely let it ring two or three times, so I wouldn't appear too eager. Finally, I picked up, and the person on the other end said the four words I had been waiting 2 days to hear: "Your luggage has arrived."

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